They say a little spontaneity goes a long way in a marriage. On an unremarkable Thursday evening, I’m about to put that theory to the test.
In the Gulf country where I live as an expat, Friday and Saturday are the weekend. We’ve gotten into the habit of letting Thursday evening slip by as if it’s not a true part of the weekend, only a mere clearing of the throat before the actual two-day peformance. I’ve decided that we need to get our downtime up and running: the weekend starts right now. Carpe Weekend!
I approach my wife who is busying herself in the kitchen, and suggest a last minute trip to the cinema:
“Let’s go and see Blade Runner 2049”.
“When?” my wife replies, expecting an answer that reflects a sensibly scheduled slot at some point over the next two days.
“Tonight!” I announce, with a steely gaze, as if we are teenagers planning to elope. I’m expecting push-back because it’s the end of a weekday, so I quickly segue into a hard sell: “Empire magazine gave it 5 stars. Peter Bradshaw in The Guardian said it was one of the best Sci-Fi films in a generation, and he hates pretty much everything.”.
To my surprise, my wife is game, almost like “you had me at “Let’s go.””
The warning signs are there in the car. My eyes are on the road, navigating the evening traffic, simultaneously giving her a primer on the original Blade Runner film, which she’s never seen. I’m trying to rein in the nerd, but can’t help sounding as if I’m giving a TED talk on the future of renewable energy. In other words, I’minvested. Here and there, she nods and murmurs in acknowledgment. “I need a coffee” she sighs.
We order coffees at the cinema which take an age to be served, as if they know coffee is on the menu but seem caught off guard by a request for anything outside the holy trinity of fizzy drink, nachos and popcorn. Our server walks to the coffee machine sitting untroubled at the far end of the counter, stares at it for a while, and then hesitantly starts to press buttons.
My wife’s pet-hate is hot beverages that are luke-warm. They must have read her mind as we are presented (eventually) with overfilled, piping hot coffees, without a cup holder. We make our way to the auditorium, gingerly clasping the treacherous cups, our fingers dancing like that lizard’s legs on the hot desert sand.
The movie begins, and immediately I am mesmerised. It is what I might call a magnificent sci-fi mood piece (if I ever become the kind of person who uses terms like: “mood piece”). Over the course of nearly three hours, it reflects on what it means to be a sentient being; a meditation on faulty memory, isolation, the need to belong, the yearning for connection, against a backdrop of dystopian neon. So, just like a typical Thursday night for me then.
Early on, I look over at my wife and she is staring silently and unblinking at the screen. Mesmerised too, it seems. Later, I again turn to her to connect in a moment of mutual silent admiration as another jaw-dropping set-piece unspools on the screen.
Indeed, her mouth is slightly agape. But that is because she is asleep. Fast asleep. Hans Zimmer’s bombastic score reverberating through the Dolby Atmos surround sound has left me oblivious to the gentle snoring that’s been emanating from the small speaker right beside me. Now I realise that her earlier “mesmerised” state was actually a soporific prelude to slumber.
I tell myself to treat this as an integral part of the exercise in being spontaneous. After all, who says you have to do something as formulaic as watch a film in a cinema? Spontaneity is about breaking the rules that shackle us to unchallenged tradition! Why not sleep there if you want to?
For some reason I make a quick half-calculation in my head and, to my relief, I’m able to conclude that sleeping in a cinema is still cheaper, by the hour, than sleeping in a four-star hotel.
The film kicks towards its climactic phase around about the time that, I guess, the REM sleep phase kicks in for her.
The credits roll and my wife wearily lifts herself from her seat, and quips: “well, that’s two and a half hours of my life I’ll never get back.” I think it an unfair thing to say after a nice long nap, since she didn’t end up having to actually watch much of the film. After all, no-one gets up after a good night’s sleep and says “well, that’s eight hours of my life I’ll never get back”.
As we emerge into the cinema foyer, my wife again declares that it was a consummately boring film and that, whenever she woke momentarily, she found nothing on the screen worth keeping her eyes open for.
I try to salvage some positivity, like a desperate job interviewer trying to coax something of value from an indifferent candidate. Even if she didn’t think much of the story, I ask her at least to acknowledge the arresting visuals, the totally absorbing set-design. She gives me a dismissive look, as if we have just left a restaurant having eaten a really bad meal, and I’m trying to convince her that at least the plates were pretty.
I decide that’s quite enough spontaneity for one evening. Weekend starts tomorrow.